


Lose My Mind

by kay_emm_gee



Series: Four Corners [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Country & Western, Dancing, Drinking, F/M, Flirting, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy liked country music, sure, but it wasn’t until he was trying to talk a pretty blonde around to liking it too that he realized how much of a thing he had for girls wearing plaid and letting their hair down. Or, rather, one girl in particular, and wearing his plaid, specifically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose My Mind

The bar was just starting to get crowded, and Miller looked like he was either going to throw up or punch someone. Bellamy couldn’t blame him. Why Wick had thought it was a good idea to plan a blind date disguised as a group outing at a country bar—when neither Miller nor Monty liked country music—he didn’t know.

“Well, I like country,” Wick when Miller went outside to take a smoke to calm his nerves. Monty was late, texting that he was waiting on another friend he was bringing, and Miller wasn’t doing well with that fact.

“You’re not the one on the date,” Bellamy replied.

“If I’m the one spending a night part of a group ‘hang’—” he rolled his eyes at that word “—it’s gonna be someplace where I’ll enjoy myself.”

“Cause tonight’s all about you.”

Wick just knocked the bottom of his beer bottle on top of Bellamy’s full one, causing foam to rise up and spill onto the floor and Bellamy’s jeans.

“Fucker,” Bellamy growled as he dodged back to avoid the mess, while Wick just laughed.

“Like you’re not enjoying this.” Wick gestured to the room, decorated in a barn-like style, where girls with curled hair and jean cutoffs were twirling around to the twanging music playing. He then glanced at Bellamy’s plaid shirt with a smirk.

“Whatever,” Bellamy denied half-heartedly. “I’m only here because you said I had to be.”

“And that’s what you get for sleeping with the girl I’m in love with,” Wick chuckled.

Bellamy just took a long swig of his still-foamy beer, because that was a can of worms he didn’t want to open again. Not that Wick was actually mad— _Raven’s single, and hot_ ,  _and obviously can do whomever the hell she wants, I’m not even in the picture_  he had said. It was just an unfortunate coincidence, but Wick was a friend, so Bellamy still felt bad all the same. He’d learned his lesson: names would be a must with women whom he brought home from then on.

Wick had refused his apology but had smugly required the promise of a favor from him. Three weeks later, he had cashed in by asking Bellamy to scrounge up a match for his coworker Monty. Miller had been Bellamy’s first choice, and surprisingly had been pretty agreeable—though now he might be feeling differently.

“You think he made a run for it?” Bellamy asked, noticing how long Miller had been gone.

“If so, you need better friends.”

Bellamy raised his eyebrows.  

“Fuck you too,” Wick retorted. “I’m a great friend.”

Laughing, Bellamy took another sip of his beer, turning his attention to the rest of the bar, watching the crowd cluster closer and closer to the dance floor. He and Wick drank in silence for a few minutes until they were interrupted by the arrival of a very attractive blonde. As she stood in front of them questioningly–her sequined white tank top glittering even in the low light of the bar, and her hair secured into a severe, high bun, looking very out of place—Bellamy felt his lips curving up into a smile.

She spoke to his friend instead, though. “You’re Wick, right?”

“Sure am,” Wick answered enthusiastically, shaking her hand. Bellamy resisted the grimace that wanted to surface at seeing them touch, but he bit it back. She wasn’t Wick’s type, Bellamy thought—really, only Raven was his type—but he should let his friend have this one. Maybe it’d help him move on.

His hand didn’t get the memo though, flying out as he said, “And I’m Bellamy.”

“Miller’s friend,” she said, shooting him a hesitant smile. “I’m Clarke, the reason Monty’s late.”

“Where’s Monty?” Wick asked, suddenly concerned.

“Outside with Miller,” Clarke replied, a conspiring twinkle in her eye. “They’re hitting it off, apparently.”

Bellamy groaned, and Wick laughed.

“You’re up,” his friend teased as Clarke gave them a questioning look.

“Let’s just say we’re wagering folk,” Wick explained.

Clarke raised her eyebrows but didn’t press for an explanation.

“You want a drink? Apparently next round is on me,” Bellamy offered.

“I’ll go with you,” Clarke countered, pushing past him.

As they walked up, Bellamy noticed more than a few people staring at her. She stuck out: one, because she was hot, and two, because she was dressed for a club and not a country bar. He choked back a laugh when she tried to order a martini, and then a cosmopolitan.

“How about a whiskey sour?” He intervened, asking for that and two plain ones, much to the relief of the bartender.

“I don’t like whiskey,” Clarke said, looking a little taken aback at his presumption.

“Shh, you don’t say things like that in here,” Bellamy mocked.

“What? That I don’t like—”

Without thinking, he pressed his fingers against her moving mouth, feeling her small intake of breath at the gesture.

“You already look like you walked straight out of Sex and the City. Don’t make it worse,” he warned teasingly.

“So what if I don’t want shorts wedged halfway up my butt?”

A few girls nearby threw them dirty looks, and one even hiked up her shorts even higher in protest.

“You’re going to get us kicked out of here,” Bellamy laughed.

“And you’re rude,” she said, though her words had more bark than bite. In fact, her blue eyes danced with intrigue, a sight that had Bellamy smiling in anticipation.

“Just drink your whiskey.”

She took a grimacing sip, choking melodramatically as it went down.

“You were going to have a gin martini but you can’t handle a little whiskey with a lot of syrup in it?” Bellamy asked as he wove his way back through the crowd behind Clarke.

“Gin actually tastes good.”

He chuckled. “How in the hell did Monty convince you to come here tonight?”

“More like how in the hell did I convince Monty to come here tonight.”

Bellamy’s hackles raised a bit at her skepticism. “Miller is a good guy.”

“So is Monty. He’s just shy,” she shot back in defense.

“Wick is here,” he countered.

Without stopping, Clarke threw a dubious look over her shoulder, and after a second, Bellamy shrugged, conceding the point. Wick was probably not the best form of moral support in this situation.

“I’m starting to think you don’t want me here,” she said lightly, her voice almost lost amongst the chatter of the bar.

“I’m just curious—”

She stopped short when a group of guys pushed in front of her, a few of them leering drunkenly. Reflexively, Bellamy put a hand on her lower back to steady her, and she leaned into it, shooting him a grateful glance. Her shirt was soft under his hand, and warm from her body heat. The guys moved on after he narrowed his gaze in their direction, though they didn’t move quite as quickly as he would’ve liked.

“Curious about?”

It took him a minute to bring his thoughts back to their conversation, and even longer to pull his hand away from her back. “Uh. This just doesn’t seem like your type of fun.”

“I’m not fun?” She frowned. “I’m fun.”

“No! That’s not what I—” He broke off when she started grinning. She was teasing him. “I take it back,” he continued. “Wick would’ve been enough for Monty. He didn’t need you.”

She scoffed, and started moving again, calling over her shoulder, “I’m a great friend.”

Bellamy took a long swig of his whiskey—and a longer sip of Wick’s because the asshole deserved it—as he watched her walk away from him for a moment. With the way her ass looked in those jeans, he wasn’t particularly feeling  _friend_ at the moment.

She was sipping on her drink with a disgruntled look when he reached her and Wick.

“’Bout time, asshat,” Wick said, grabbing for his drink. Squinting at it, he sighed, noticing the lowered level. “Rude, Blake.”

“Suck it,  _Kyle_.”

Wick flipped him off, and Clarke laughed, then took another sip. This time she didn’t grimace.

“Not so bad, is it?” Bellamy asked, swirling his glass of whiskey around smugly.

She made a disgusted face that wasn’t entirely convincing. “I’ve had better.”

He smiled. “You like it.”

“I’ve had worse,” she said evenly, but the smile she was fighting betrayed her.

She liked it. He grinned even wider.

* * *

“This is—this is the  _third_  time we’ve heard this song!” Clarke protested, her face pinched in disapproval.

Bellamy scoffed. “It’s a good song!”

“Two times ago,” she complained, waving her third whiskey sour around, the liquid inside coming close to sloshing out.

“One time ago,” he bantered back.

She lifted a finger off her glass, pointing at him. “No times ago.”

“Hopeless,” Bellamy murmured into his glass amusedly before draining the last of his drink. Then he held it out to a slightly bored-looking Wick. “Make yourself useful, yeah?”

Wick sighed dramatically. “Always taking advantage of my giving nature.”

As his friend slipped behind Clarke, Wick turned around and waggled his eyebrows. Bellamy narrowed his eyes slightly, not wanting his friend to take it upon himself to “help.” Clarke just nursed her drink, seemingly ignorant. Not quite buying her nonchalance, he upped his frown at Wick to a scowl, and his friend raised his hands in surrender, then jostled his way towards the bar.

“So. We’ve covered the drinks, and the music,” Clarke said, drawing his attention back to her happy, flushed face. “C’mon, what’s next? I wanna get the full country experience!”

“Well.”

“Well,” she intoned back in a mocking, deep voice.

“Your—look.” He gestured up and down her figure. She shifted, switching her weight from one heeled foot to the other. The motion made him aware of every inch of her, and Bellamy felt a sharp pull at the base of his spine. Her gaze was challenging when he looked up again.

“What’s wrong with my look?” She asked sweetly.

He could practically hear Octavia laughing her ass off at him.  _How you gonna get yourself out of this one, big brother?_  It was the double whiskey shot Wick had challenged him to earlier; it was tying his goddamn tongue in knots. Or she was, with her playful blue eyes.

“Um, well, you look nice—”

“Nice?”

He took a long swig of his drink—what could more hurt at this point—letting the whiskey burn down his throat. Maybe it would torch the inappropriate words ( _hot, sexy, mind-blowing_ ,  _I-wanna-do-you_ ) clambering to escape.

“Not enough plaid,” he managed to rasp out.

She laughed, a rich sound that had splinters of heat burrowing under his skin. “Nothing I can do about that now.”

Bellamy set his drink down on their table with a decisive clink. “Oh, we’ll see.”

Grinning, he began unbuttoning his shirt. Clarke choked on her drink, a bright red flush splashing across her cheeks.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He pulled open the edges of his button-up, revealing the white t-shirt underneath. “What, did you think I was going to go topless?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

Her blush just deepened. “No,” she drawled sourly.

She continued her petulant mood as he worked his shirt off, and even scowled at him when he dangled it in front of her tauntingly.

“You said you wanted the full experience,” he teased.

With a huff, she snatched the shirt and shrugged it on. His mouth went dry at the sight of her wearing it, conjuring up all types of images of her wearing his clothes due to much different circumstances.

Or not wearing his clothes.

He blinked, and she was smiling at him in a knowing sort of way.

“So?”

“Getting there,” he replied, mind a little too muddled to figure out what to do next.

After a silent pause, where he scrambled to gather his thoughts, and she finished her drink, Clarke rolled her neck, and then hissed.

“Motherfucker,” she muttered, fiddling with her bun. The more she played with it, the more it unraveled. She pulled out pins, sticking them in her mouth absently as she tried to wind her hair back up, but it was sliding everywhere, blonde waves gleaming.

“Take it down,” Bellamy suggested, trying to ignore the impulse to run his hands through the strands.

“It’s going to be a mess.”

“Country chic.”

“I can’t believe you’re giving me fashion advice.” She pulled out a few more pins, and more strands fell.

He took another gulp of his drink. “I help my sister all the time.”

“And does she take your advice?” The mass of curls now hung at her neck, still a thick tangle.

“No.”

Clarke laughed, then tipped her head upside down, shaking out the loosened strands. When she flipped back up, it was a mess, but a just-got-laid type of mess, and Bellamy leaned in a bit closer to her. Reaching out, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“Looks good to me,” he murmured, noticing her chest rise and fall in a slow inhale.

She looked up at him, all blue not-so-innocence, the corner of her mouth quirked up playfully. “I meet your standards now?”

Instead of replying, Bellamy leaned down, fully intending to kiss the smirk right off of her face.

“When the fuck did Monty and Miller leave?”

Bellamy jerked his head up and glared at Wick, who had suddenly reappeared, and daringly sans drinks. “I don’t know,” he ground out, feeling Clarke shift away from him. “Why don’t you go find them?”

“I already  _know_  they left,” Wick said cheerfully. “I asked the door guy. I was just wondering how long it took them before they jumped each other’s bones. I’ve got a bet going with somebody.”

Clarke clapped in celebration, clearly all of her doubts about Miller abandoned. As she began to chatter about how happy she was for Monty, Bellamy just continued glowering at Wick, whose mouth was quivering with poorly restrained amusement. The fucker knew exactly what he had just interrupted. Bellamy resisted the urge to flip him off, because, well,  _rude_ , but Wick also could’ve been more of a dick about the Raven thing. So, he was allowed to dole out a little payback without getting his nose broken.

Glancing at Clarke again, though, had Bellamy reconsidering, because the way his shirt hung just slightly too large on her frame, the collar obscured by her cascade of hair, which he  _really_  wanted to push aside to find her neck, so he could run his lips along her pulse point, sliding his hand around to the small of her back—

“Now  _this_ is a good song!” Clarke exclaimed.

Bellamy’s eyes snapped back to hers. “You know this one?”

“I may have heard it before,” she admitted, shrugging sheepishly.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Bellamy murmured, smiling at the way she was moving in time to the music.

With a laugh, she responded by tugging him towards the dance floor. He gave Wick a patronizing wave, and his friend shook his head in exasperation. Quickly, though, Bellamy’s attention flashed back to Clarke, as she began rolling and rocking out to the feel-good melody blasting around them.

“ _Yoooo-ooo-ooou, make all my screws, come, looooo-ooo-ooose,_ ” she belted out along with the first chorus, stamping one heel in time to the beat as she twisted her hips lower and lower, hands flying up into the air with flair.

Chuckling, Bellamy sang back at her, looking down as she tipped her face up to meet his gaze. Her yellow curls stuck out brightly against the dark blue and red plaid of his shirt. Impulsively, he reached up and ruffled her hair, and she let out a shriek of surprise. Without missing a beat, she reached up and scrubbed his hair in retaliation, the sensation of her fingers running against his scalp sending sharp, hot shocks down his spine. They pooled low, pushing him closer to Clarke. He could feel the whisper of her against him, and she bit her bottom lip, glancing away before looking up at him again through her lashes.

She was still singing along— _you mess me up, and drive me wild_ —when he darted down and claimed her mouth, a soft, stubborn thing, with his own, chasing her melody with heat and pressure and want. Giving as good as she got, she rolled up against him, chest pressed tightly against his, fisting her hands into his shirt. He welcomed her heat and her challenge, sliding his hands to her hips, pulling her to him. His fingers dug into her, the familiar worn fabric of his flannel standing flimsily between him and her skin.

“I think I like country,” Clarke said a little breathlessly when they finally broke apart.

Bellamy chuckled against her cheek, pressing a quick kiss there. “Told you so.” He waited a beat, then dared ask, “Wanna get out of here?”

Her smile faltered, and her grip on him loosened. “What about Wick?”

He was tempted to say  _fuck Wick_ , but her hesitation had him thinking twice. “He would be fine on his own,” he said slowly. “But so would I.”

She hesitated again, her fingers tightening in a way that had him hopeful, but then she let go, rocking back down onto her heels. “Bellamy—”

“I had fun tonight, no matter what,” he said reassuringly, though it was pretty damn hard to let go of her.

“Thanks,” she murmured, an unnecessary apology and the shadow of a long, probably painful story in her eyes. “It’s just—I don’t have the best track record of late, and Monty’s a good friend, and you’re Miller’s friend—”

He could fill in some of the blanks from where she trailed off. A part of him—the part fighting for control against his better instincts—wanted to convince her that he could help, that his hands, and his mouth, all of him could help drive away the bad memories that clearly weighed on her still.

She stepped farther away, shoulders rising as she curled in on herself. Bellamy sighed, swallowing back the coaxing plea he was about to let slip. “Do you want me to get you a cab?”

“No, you should stay here.” Clarke said quickly. “Definitely–” she licked her lips, “stay here.” Then she swayed forward, her eyes flicking up and down him heatedly. “No,” she repeated, less sure this time.

“Go home, Clarke,” Bellamy said with a wry smile.

She blew out a breath, nodded, and then gave him a fond smile. Before he knew it, he was watching her walk out the door, gone in a flash of dull gold.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Wick said when he came back alone.

Jerking the half-drunk glass out of his friend’s hand, he downed the rest of it. “I’m a fucking gentleman.”

Wick snorted. “Idiot.”

Bellamy let the rough liquor flavor burn on his tongue before he breathed a regretful, guilty  _yeah_  in agreement.

* * *

It wasn’t until a few hours later, when he was falling into bed, that he grinned uncontrollably, because he just remembered that Clarke still had his shirt.

Maybe he wasn’t so much of an idiot after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and story inspiration from the Brett Eldredge song.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


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